


The Fool

by WonderMint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: But NOT Strip Poker, But consent is sober, But not Triple Triad, Cards, Casual Ableism, Drinking, Implied Relationships, In Denial, Inadvisable bets, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Poker, Sad Boys in Snow, Swearing, casual sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderMint/pseuds/WonderMint
Summary: They had been drunk.They were sober now.Aymeric was not bluffing.





	1. Bluff

**Author's Note:**

> After my successful NaNo, I've had to take a break from writing for various personal reasons. This story is near completion, but I have decided to post the first of two chapters just to get myself moving again. Pray forgive the tease.
> 
> My first attempt at writing the Jerkgoon. I think I'm going to keep him.

Gambling was not, to use an expression, Estinien’s _strong suit._

 

Nor was it generally his idea of a good time. But as a periodic means of being near Ser Aymeric, he found he could bear it, every so often. So he had condescended to join the knight and his lieutenant, gathered around a small table in the First Commander's spartan quarters, drinking and grumbling and coughing up his hard-earned wages for cheap laughs.

 

When he was being more sensible and left the pair to their revelry, Ser Handeloup ordinarily rounded out their poker night. But for some reason, he never made appearance with Estinien present. The Dragoon wondered what he had done to offend the man, that he might do it more often.

 

“Fool,” accused Ser Lucia, pointedly pushing forward one of her cards. Across the table, Estinien growled, but looked closer as she'd bid. From between a Lady and an Ace of Cups, the Knight slid toward him and was twirled to face him fully, the woman's fingers pirouetting on the table like a dancing harlot. “Not a Knight, though one could easily mistake them, at a glance,” she said, resting her head on her hand to glance sideways, grinning, at Aymeric. “Fool's wild, I win.”

 

Estinien's closest—perhaps only—friend took the jest graciously, with a smile too broad to be entirely sober, and eyes narrowed to sparkling slits.

 

It was easy to mistake the two. The difference was that that Fool rode his chocobo backwards. “Indeed, the resemblance is uncanny,” grumbled Estinien. At least if he were to lose again, it was with a parting insult to soothe the sting. The fact that Lucia had supplied it could be conveniently ignored, for a time.

 

Aymeric merely let his smile creep wider, and handed over his cards for the next deal. “Nothing like me,” he said, without a hint of slur in his deep, serpentine voice. “My chocobo is two hands taller.”

 

Lucia was of the opinion that the only way to beat Aymeric at cards was to get him well and thoroughly drunk. It did, in fact, tend to even the odds, though Estinien was still miserable at it. He was poor at concealing his expressions, and the pair of them had insisted he could not wear his helm during the game. He did insist on wearing much of his armor anyway, paranoia, duty, and a creeping sense of _nakedness_ preventing him from fully relaxing in civilian dress.

 

The next three hands proceeded in much the same way, though Estinien was able to call Aymeric’s bluff on the fourth.  The knight had straightened his cards a second time since receiving them, for no other reason than for something to do with his hands . Though he’d bet half his chips by then, all he’d held was a trio of twos, and the dragoon thrilled to the knowledge of having beaten him.

 

For the most part though, the politician’s snake-eyed glances and cock-sure grins merely threw Estinien off-balance. Aymeric had what could easily be called the perfect poker face, when he negotiated in the name of his office. But when Lucia plied him with beer, tempting him with strong, dark brews which seemed a waste of money merely to get drunk, his friend seemed to become someone different. Animated, lively, quick to flash his brilliant smile or lean close to whisper conspiratorially about the way Lucia’s eye twitched when she was cross.

 

Even clad in armor that was nearly a weapon itself, he could feel the heat of the other man hovering so near his skin, feel the rush of his breath tickling his unkempt platinum hair.

 

Maybe he was drunk, too. Something about Aymeric had a tendency to get him lost in his cups.

 

Either way, he was used to losing. Badly. And by the time they’d made it far enough to become apparent it was about to happen again, they’d all had enough to compromise their decision-making a bit. ‘Part of the fun,’ Aymeric had said once, whilst he was in such a state himself. Estinien didn’t like letting his guard down, but there was something nice about seeing the other man so free with him,  flushed and happy and a little too close for comfort.

 

Usually.

 

“He’s  _blushing_ ,” was what the Lord Commander said now, making Estinien thoroughly regret having been born. He hadn’t been—probably—but it was a law of nature that such accusations were self-fulfilling, and he felt the heat in his face before he could decide whether it was anger or the earnest desire to  _die_ .

 

Anger won. The dragoon clenched his teeth as though he were tearing off a chunk of meat, bloody and raw. “I’m  _drinking_ ,  you sodding whoreson’s bitch!”

 

Aymeric had hit a nerve, plucked it like a taut string, but he couldn’t quite see it yet. He was still staring at Estinien with too much mischief, too much pleasure for his own good,  curling his smile over his poker hand as though to conceal his intentions as well. “Aye,” he said, clearly pleased. “And now you’re blushing, too. Fold or call?”

 

He looked to Lucia, who shrugged and rolled her eyes farther than he had thought it possible, leaning back and putting a boot on the table as though to distance herself from the pair of fools she’d mistaken for good company. But it was indeed his turn, as she indicated with an impatient wave of her hand. “Fifty gil, pay attention,” she groused.

 

He was being goaded again, but it didn’t sit right with him, not this time. He ground his teeth hard enough to dust the table with snow, but Aymeric just _twinkled_ those frozen blue eyes, and damn it if it wasn’t making the whole thing worse. “One hundred,” he said, pushing forward a stack of rough-carved wooden chips. “Fury’s _maiden veil_ , you are insufferable!” he swore, which was enough to prompt Aymeric into a deep flush of his own.

 

And didn’t that make his stomach flop like a skyfish in a tree?

 

It was soothing to his ire, too, seeing a sign of weakness. So he pressed again, even as Aymeric stacked up his own chips. “Oh, forgive me,” he minced. “I forgot how  _innocent_ our Lord Commander is. Can’t have any rough talk, can we? You’ve probably got your own veil intact. Should get you a whore instead of wasting time with these games, you’d come out better with a good  _fuck_ .”

 

Lucia’s glare would have withered a silk rose. But Estinien’s blood was cushioned with liquid courage, and he liked how put off Aymeric looked by the comment, his hand hovering awkwardly over his chips as though he’d forgotten why they were stacked just so.

 

Then the knight blinked, a strange calm settling over him, his face becoming the blank stone that  so well served him in his new office . “All in,” he corrected, shoving forward his chips in a heap. “Four thousand twenty.  And… a side bet, for our Dragoon.”

 

“That isn’t how the game is played,” said Lucia, tossing down her cards. “Take your pissing match somewhere else. I refuse to be party to your  juvenile \--”

 

Estinien pushed forward his paltry three hundred and fifty gil chips. He enunciated his words with careful precision, paving over the First Commander’s objection with his own bile. “ _Sod off_ , you bleeding sack of chocobo shite.”

 

Aymeric’s grin became entirely too loose, like trousers beyond the help of a belt. He held his cards securely, waggling them in the air without turning them to see,  like a lady fanning herself before the fire . “No, no. I think you’ll be interested in this  one .  You think I’m so innocent ?”  A flicker of dark lashes over narrowed eyes betrayed the other man’s irritation, but Estinien could feel naught but pleasure for it. “Put me in my place, then. If I can’t prove  otherwise , I’ll buy your drinks for a  _year._ ”

 

“ Spare me,” muttered Lucia, digging herself a hole in her chair to sulk. Aymeric waved a lazy hand at her, though it was a toss-up whether it was intended to be an apology or a dismissal. But he would not be distracted. His grin was only for Estinien.

 

Seeing it made something lurch, deep in his belly. Something that only came out at times like this, when Aymeric was uninhibited and he himself was plied with drink. “And if you can, I buy yours?” The knight nodded, his smile ratcheting higher, a sail of foolishness in the rough wind. “Who decides the game?”

 

“You, of course,” said Aymeric silkily. “A handicap, if you will.”

 

This was bloody dangerous. He couldn’t place why at the moment, but the other man was too confident. But he remembered the  knight’ s flush when he’d pressed his assault earlier, and then his own. He slammed his cards on the table, making his chips jump in the air and then settle themselves into a new arrangement. “Deal,” he growled, revealing two fours and a Fool.

 

When Aymeric revealed his trio of  Lords , Estinien threw half the pot in his face.

 

Lucia, iron-fisted and severe, had prevented any further talk of their side-wager,  muttering about “ children and their games,” though she was clearly there to play . They finished in relative peace, though she had resorted to throwing Aymeric’s own chips at him to keep him focused. The drink was beginning to affect his speech and movements, which was gratifying; it allowed the Dragoon to justify the complacency that c rept over his limbs, warming him and making him wish for a bed to crawl into. Still, he was content to sit there. He was reminded, hazily, that he made these visits to see Aymeric. Even slurring his words around the edges, he liked to hear his voice, and bask beneath his smile.

 

At those times, he hardly heard the bleating hatred that had coiled itself around his heart. At those times, he was at peace.

 

The next morning, he wasn’t quite as certain it had been worth it. But duty called, such as it was, and the Azure Dragoon was as the Fury’s very spear. Sharpe ne d, always, and leveled at her enemies. Ready at all times to  _fly_ .

 

At the very least, shouting at the sun rarely helped. And so his little bet was soon forgotten, lost in a long  lazy knot of memories, each more tangled than the last.

 

Until the other man chased him down in the Forum  a few nights later , and the flush of  exertion on  his cheeks had sparked a fragment of recognition.

 

He had a very bad feeling about it. Even moreso when Aymeric had invited him to his home to discuss the terms. The knight wore a guarded expression, unusually so, even sober.

 

Estinien felt that perhaps he should refuse. He couldn’t quite place why, nor his reasons for accepting. It seemed related, somehow. Warm, deep, a guilty pleasure he could not name.

 

It became rather more clear when the other man led him to his own chambers in his echoing family home. There was no drink offered save water, and no diversion save the pack of cards that was busy playing chocobo scratch with itself, smeared all over the tea table. Aymeric was nearly grim as he seated himself before them, calmly gathering them up and righting them in his hand until they were, at last, a deck once more.

 

“You were drunk when you accepted,” he said seriously. “Now is your chance to recant, if you like.” His eyes were not on the fully-armored Dragoon that hovered near the fire, but only the cards. As though they were discussing  _that_ game, instead of… whatever the man had in mind.

 

Foreboding lurked at the edges of Estinien’s consciousness, thunder clouds of good sense that he swept away with a flick of his hand. “ P retend for a moment that I have forgotten the terms of our wager. Remind me.”

 

Aymeric blinked, then commenced to shuffling. “A year’s free drinks in the balance. I must convince you that I am not an innocent, as you so blithely—and _frequently_ —suggest. You are the sole judge. If you are not swayed, I lose.”

 

Somehow it sounded… much, much worse, now that he was sober. Estinien needed to think about that sitting down. He found a wooden chair in the corner, dragging it toward the tea table as though to wait for a deal. If Aymeric appreciated the damage that had been saved to his upholstery, he did not comment.

 

It seemed impossible for him to lose, though, were he the arbiter. “What’s the catch?” he asked, even as that strange part of him lurched around in his belly, wriggling like a dragon with an itch.

 

He was met with eyes the color of purest ice, narrowed so that he  _felt_ the chill, all throughout his spine. Then  the commander returned to watching his cards, dealt not as poker hands, but solitaire. “ We bid before we show our cards, Estinien. I have  some  few ideas for how to prove it to you, but in  revealing them I will have caused myself quite a bit of embarrassment. You must choose one, or offer your own  for my consideration . If you refuse, you fold. But you  must commit  _now_ , or the game is off.”

 

With a start he recalled that Aymeric sometimes got fidgety during a big play. Usually it signified a bluff and a good deal of alcohol.  And yet, he was sober now. Intriguing. It got the blood in Estinien’s veins moving, his predator instinct looking for the kill, or in this case, a win.

 

And yet it seemed a bit  too simple .  There was a bright lick of danger, like the frost settling before an ambush, too quiet, too still . What would it be?  He was fairly certain the man hadn’t taken any long-term lovers, but perhaps there was an acquaintance who would testify to his skill and knowledge. Or perhaps they could go fishing for girls at the Knight, prove he could lure a woman to his bed.

 

The thought of it bothered him, somehow, so he shook it clear from his mind and leaned forward to tap a card. “ Knight of Wands on the Lady of Cups ,” he said, just to be irritating.

 

Another icy look and Aymeric had gathered up the cards again, merely to shuffle, periodically bending the deck to accordion neatly between his hands.

 

T he other man was  _definitely_ nervous.  Hang it all.  He was a predator, he sensed weakness, and he would move in for the kill . “I’m in,” said the Dragoon. “What are your options? Spill them and let’s be done with it.  I want my free drinks .”

 

Aymeric’s hands twitched mid-way through a shuffle, and the game changed once again to chocobo scratch. This time, most of it was on the floor.

 

The knight abandoned them with a shrug, and eased himself back into the couch, arms crossed in front of his chest as though cold. With the fire at Estinien’s back, though, he couldn’t really feel the need.

 

“Option one,” said the knight, and a flush crept into his cheeks though his face remained carved from stone. “You watch me take a lover to bed. That will be more than sufficient to convince you.”

 

Estinien truly did wish he’d been drinking, because the knight deserved to have a mouthful of warm beer spit back in his face. “You’re an inbred half-wit if you think—you won’t find a woman willing to agree to that anyway. You’re bluffing!” he finally managed, though it seemed that he’d had to choose between that and breathing. He heaved a bit afterwards just to make it up, red in the face himself just from the exertion at getting out the words.

 

“That won’t be a problem,” Aymeric had the gall to deliver  _blandly_ . “I know someone who will gladly  assist .”

 

A rogue muscle beneath the Dragoon’s left eye twitched, reminding him of Lucia and her good sense. “Pray tell me you haven’t  _asked_ already,” he hissed. “I might have to dispose of the body if anyone finds out about this.”

 

A ray of the knight’s good-natured smile showed through his anxious clouds, before he began gathering up cards again. “Of course not. This is between us unless you agree otherwise. I simply know that permission will be given once sought. I’ll forfeit if I am mistaken, but I assure you that I am not.”

 

A small voice rose in the stillness of Estinien’s surprise at the declaration, one that had been trying to catch his attention for some time. It said simply, ‘I’m fucked.’

 

Aloud he said, “ Absolutely not . Next.”

 

A weak, withered smile crossed the other man, sideways as though shrinking from the light. Aymeric continued to look at the half of the deck he’d gathered up, carefully turning them one-by-one to face up. “If necessary, I will allow you to watch me please  _myself_ …” he began, “but...”

 

“ _No_ ,” replied Estinien, a savage growl that seemed to come from someplace hot, somewhere in his lungs, as though he, too, could breathe fire.

 

Aymeric blinked, sighing in something like relief. “Then the final option… I can demonstrate on  _you_ .”

 

B lushing. Aymeric was definitely blushing, and it didn’t matter one whit because Estinien was  _burning alive_ , blood rushing to his skin in places he hadn’t known could blush. It didn’t even matter that he was hiding behind his helm, he was fairly certain the other man could read the flush on his lips. At least that’s where his eyes were tracing, between furtive glances at the top of his deck.

 

But he let Estinien take his time, let the words that fought for use of his vocal cords duel until  finally  there was a clear winner. “Are you off your  _sodding skull_ !?” he bit, clenching his fist on the back of his chair lest it fly into the knight’s face.

 

Aymeric narrowed his elegant eyes once more, cutting a few cards off the deck and spreading them into a hand. “I will needs demonstrate that I am experienced in matters you deem beyond me. If you have an alternative method in mind, pray share it. Otherwise, you may fold, and we can laugh about it over drinks.”

 

A bluff. It all had to be a bluff. There was no way in hells Aymeric was willing to go through any of this. But he had a go, anyway, just so he could reassure himself that he’d tried. “I thought maybe you meant you’d—hells, that we’d go fishing for tail at the Knight, and you’d show me you could woo a girl and I wouldn’t have to—to bloody  _watch!”_

 

“I considered that, of course,” said Aymeric, and a grin that was a touch too _triumphant_ wound its way around his teeth. “But that would only be a test of my charms. I could as easily do that by playing the naif, don’t you think? Besides, it’s far too easy. No, you  must _concede_ that I am not _innocent_ , and for that, you will needs see my skill in practice.”

 

_Or forfeit_ , were the words unspoken, echoing ‘round the room. “Two, then,” said Estinien, his heart thumping so loudly he wondered if he might need to speak louder to be heard over the din.

 

“Ah,” said the knight, looking off to the side. He bent the deck in one hand and sent it flying prettily after the others, like doves taking wing. “You stopped me before I could finish. I was going to say that  in order to be willing to  embarrass myself in such a way, I  require an assurance from you that you are… willing to be swayed by my performance.  I refuse to do it if you will only be disgusted by the display. ”

 

The words tumbled into place in Estinien’s mind, clicking together only slowly, the picture indistinct. “You’ll only do it if I’m--”

 

“Interested in… men… at least in theory,” said the other man, a sideways glance all he was willing to risk before returning to his riveting game of scratch.

 

Estinien flipped open his visor just to scrub his hand across his face, giving his eyes a good long rub.  It crossed his mind that the same might have gone for Aymeric, but the thought seemed to extinguish itself in a flash of fear and sparks leaving him with naught but anger.  “Hang you. Hang you and your mother and the  _dragon_ your mother fucked to conceive you,” he muttered. Aymeric actually  _winced_ at that one, but the  d ragoon was beyond caring at this point.

 

“It’s… just a years drinks,” said Aymeric, looking distinctly uncomfortable even behind his mask. “It isn’t worth it. Hell, we’ll call it off. We were both drunk.” Once again the cards were gathered up, but this time the knight didn’t seem to see them, staring sharply at nothing at all.

 

Estinien didn’t feel right about that, either. Snakes wriggled in his belly, an unpleasant feeling, not at all like that lovely lurch he got when the other man smiled. “No,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and then snapping his visor shut once more. Replacing his own poker mask, and taking comfort behind its cold steel. “I agreed to it _sober._ If anyone’s a fool it’s me.” He stopped short of apologizing for his tongue. There’d be peace with the _dragons_ before he’d do that.

 

Aymeric paused, gripping a card carefully with his fine fingers. Estinien found himself regretting that the knight had removed his formal armor and gone without his gloves. But he seemed softer when he was dressed casually, and the dragoon liked that too. He liked seeing the edges of his black  c urls feather around the back of his neck, and the flex of skin at the hollow of his throat.

 

“You concede, then?” said the other man, addressing his cards with a tight-leashed voice. As though his own throat were bound in leather, pulled taut.

 

No. No, no, no, said something deep within Estinien. Not because he couldn’t afford the expense, or even the shame of losing. No, his blood had been boiling with the thrill of the dare. The chase, the hunt, the kill. The idea of calling it off and walking away was like tepid wine in his mouth. Better hot or cold, and the thought of Aymeric…

 

Option one was certainly cold.  The thought of it made him ill . But three…

 

“Tell me about option three. What do you propose?” he found himself saying, and he worked to convince himself that some other force had animated his lips.

 

Aymeric dipped his head, but he stole a glance from the corner of his eye, as though he might read something upon the  d ragoon’s inscrutable helm.  It took him a moment to compose a reply, making Estinien wonder if his bluff had indeed been called. But the game was not yet over, it seemed.  “You needn’t do much,”  he said at length. “Only allow me to…  I believe… my tongue will suffice,” he finally managed.

 

Oh. Oh hells. Oh bloody, goddamn _hells_ , thought Estinien, the only words that came to mind. Yes, definitely hot. There was that lurch again, strong enough to move his blood and animate other parts of his body.

 

Aymeric was his  _friend_ . His god s damn— _male_ —friend. This was definitely going to o far for a bet.

 

They had been drunk.

 

They were sober now.

 

Aymeric was not bluffing.

 

It was not about the drinks. Not for either of them. Estinien was suddenly  _absolutely certain_ of that fact.

 

“And I take it that is something you are willing and prepared to do,” he said, and found that his voice worked only with effort, and came out sounding quite unlike his own.

 

Suddenly he had captured Aymeric’s full attention, for the first time since they’d arrived in his home. The force of it was enough that Estinien was glad he was seated, and perhaps even sober. There was too much, there, writ all across his face, enough to give away a hundred hands and then some. But then it passed, and he became the stony diplomat instead, his voice chocolate-smooth.

 

“Of course,” he said, with only a hint of a smile. “Otherwise I would needs concede.”

 

“Hang it,” said Estinien, throwing his chips down in metaphor only. “ As long as you promise me we’ll laugh about it later.” He wasn’t willing to lose Aymeric over it. Just a year’s worth of booze. And a private shame he’d carry the rest of his life, to chuckle about only together.

 

That was surely worth it. Right?

 

Something flashed across the other man’s face, far too quickly to read. But then he smiled generously, and gestured toward his bedroom. “After you, then.”

 

It was not the smile that made his stomach churn and his blood tingle in his veins. But his pulse raced all the same, and he complied.

 

They were both fools. That much was entirely certain.


	2. Double Bluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY PATCHMASS!
> 
> My apologies. I said it would be two chapters. I was wrong. I needed to break up the action as much for my own sake as for yours. I promise that this is, however, in no way safe for work.

Once in Ser Aymeric’s _bedroom_ , the implications were making themselves startlingly clear. Estinien could _feel_ his means of escape closing behind him, even as Aymeric vacated the entry and went to rummage around in a drawer.

 

“ No armor on the bed, if you please,” said the knight, all business and no eye contact. Trying, perchance by force, to ignore the sea of tension that flowed between them, crashing around their ears and threatening to choke out their breath.

 

Estinien could well have been a statue lining the Last Vigil. But he believed it possible for stone to _run_ when a length of red silk rope was produced from within the bedside drawer. Aymeric paused for a moment before finally braving a look, hovering awkwardly near the bed with the rope wilting in his hands. It was pointless. The dragoon was well-protected by his helm. Instead it exposed the other man’s tenderness and sympathy, shining through his fragile poker mask like a ray of dawn on the dew.

 

The question was unspoken, but  required an answer ,  much like an insult to one’s mother . “I won’t be trussed like a whore,” Estinien growled, and though he meant it  to carry venom it emerged as a defensive ward. As though it fell on him to make excuse for the other man’s lunacy. As though it were  _he_ that erred.

 

Aymeric only shook his head, gently, placatingly. “I don’t intend to take advantage of you, Estinien. But I suspect it would help you to relax if you were deprived of the need to act. No ambiguity—merely business. If it bothers you, of course...” he let the offer stand with a soft shrug of his shoulders, as though it hardly merited the words to give it speech. Hardly a threat worthy of drawing the dragoon’s ire. Merely a suggestion to be taken or discarded at will.

 

Thus soothed, Estinien could begin to entertain the merits. Something about the argument was nearly sensible, though he could not quite place what or why. There seemed some manner of mischief afoot, as though his knight had cast some strange illusion. Another bluff, a cantrip glimmering atop a layer of sheerest mummery.

 

Perhaps he merely wished to be convinced. Something about the image it painted in his mind’s eye… but it was not worth devoting thought to. “And if I wish to be freed?” he asked, leading a cautious step into the unknown.

 

“ Merely say so, and it shall be done with all haste,” replied Aymeric, one fine eyebrow hoisted high as though surprised by the question. “You might wear your helm as well, if it helps you to feel at ease.” Then he turned away, almost disinterested, tossing the rope onto the bed and peeling away his shirt.

 

It was difficult to manage an objection when Aymeric’s skin was being revealed. Shoulders first, strong but not t o o broad, and then a long willowy back, muscles rumbling beneath warm skin. It was over in a flash, but the effect remained with him even as the shirt crumpled to the floor. Estinien sucked a sip of cool air over his teeth, his mouth suddenly far too dry.

 

It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. But he’d looked then, too, hadn’t he?

 

“Estinien?”

 

The blank space in his mind was filled once more with Aymeric. He didn’t much like the concern swimming beneath the other man’s voice, nor the clear depth of the pale eyes that had turned back to behold him. He ordinarily preferred his knight just a touch this side of discomfited, but just now it felt too raw. Too real.

 

Just now, he much preferred pretending.

 

It was a reminder, then, that he had yet a part to play in this ridiculous game. The dragoon growled a token objection before reaching to his neck to slip his helm free, removing his armor piece-by-piece, as instructed. Business, Aymeric had said. Like tossing a few coins to an alley wench.

 

That left him in his woolen breeches and undershirt, the second skin that protected him from his armor as much as the cold. Aymeric chose that moment to glance away, sitting on the bed to remove his shoes but leaving his trousers firmly in place. That was reassuring too, even as Estinien discarded his woolens, leaving nothing but his shorts.

 

At least he could wear his helm. Once he’d knotted his hair once more and locked it back in place, the chill on his skin hardly seemed to matter. Aymeric graced him with a small smile as he clambered toward the headboard, waiting serenely for the dragoon to calm his nerves and settle into his role. Patting the pillow in invitation, then adjusting it beneath Estinien as his wrists were raised in supplication. Guiding hesitant hands into place with a gentle touch, a butterfly alighting on a stalk of wheat.

 

The knots were tied with efficiency and care. Aymeric looped a finger beneath the bonds several times, as concerned with their comfort as their security. “Is this alright?” he asked gently, stroking the dragoon’s wrists and then his arms with an expression of tender reverence.

 

It was a very good thing that Estinien was shielded by his helm, though his body still gave away the baser parts of his reaction to the treatment. It was all he could do to nod, hoping that the other man would think him merely nervous, or at most too long without. Not focused, as he truly was, on the curve of Aymeric’s lips as dark-lidded eyes traced his chest. Regarding Estinien as though he were some wondrous work of art that had moved his very _soul_.

 

By the time his knight had settled between his legs, hand resting lightly on his hip, Estinien was unable to conceal his enthusiasm to begin. Given what they’d planned, of course, there was very little point in trying.

 

Ser Aymeric was possessed of the grace and decency to withhold any comment at the fact. Instead he merely whispered, soft but with a fine gravel edge, leaning closer still. “Pray tell me if there is aught amiss.”

 

Estinien would have liked to claim he had been completely silent. As it was, he struggled to leash his voice into naught more than a tight gasp as Aymeric’s tongue dipped along the sensitive hollow of his hip. It wasn’t what he had been expecting at _all_. It was soft and warm, and inexplicably erotic, even before his cock had been touched. Instead he felt a vague tingle building along his hips, and when a warm hand swiped up to caress his pelvic bone, he very nearly arched into the touch.

 

Instead he channeled his nervous energy against to tug against his bonds, a slight wiggle he hoped seemed  only impatient. “No foreplay,” he growled, his voice gone someplace deep and low. “I’m no  _woman_ .”

 

Aymeric hummed speculatively as he ran his thumb against the cotton barrier of his shorts, hooking his fingers beneath but managing to move only the blood in Estinien’s veins. “Didn’t think you were,” he soothed, as though the point were a matter for the theosophers alone. His eyes, though, they sought him out directly, piercing even the dark mask of his visor. A question, in his heated glance. A trembling in his fingers, stilled b ut crying out to seek, to claim.

 

Eloquence was not Estinien’s habit, but even his reserve of invective had gone dust-dry. He managed only to lift his hips minutely in reply, and allowed his undergarments to be swept clean away.

 

He didn’t watch. He didn’t see Aymeric crouch low, stark shadows pooling below him and caressing every line of his chest. At least, he told himself his gaze was uninterested in such things, even as he was forced to block out the sight. Shutting his eyes served only to burn it into his eyelids like a fresco on wet plaster, stark and still, a story of myth and legend. Unimportant details faded away with the passage of long seconds, leaving only broad strokes of light and deep shadows. A man bent over him in supplication, dedicated to service.

 

He should not have been moved by the mere impression, no matter how picturesque. It should not have been able to steal his breath away.

 

He was startled to breath once more at the other man’s touch, though it came but moments later. Slender fingers began to find their grasp by aching, slow degrees. Estinien allowed himself another low growl at the sensation, a combination of fulfillment and slow deprivation that was at once ecstatic and fully _insufferable_. He wasn’t accustomed to such _anticipation_. It was like smooth molasses, a tingling on his tongue and the back of his neck, sweet and dark.

 

It took Aymeric entirely too long to tighten his grip, then ghost too-soft lips along his aching length. The wet slip of cooling heat that followed was not _nearly_ enough to satisfy. A shiver pushed its way into the dragoon’s shoulders even so. At the sensation, yes, but also a thrill of wonder, nearly surprise at the easy path of the knight’s tongue.

 

He had expected the other man to be at least somewhat reluctant, no matter how experienced. It was one thing to know him for a man. But he had tasted a woman himself, once, and it was surely nothing at all like—

 

And then the thought was gone completely, his fists working blindly in their bonds and his back arched and taut. “Nnngh,” he said intelligently, failing to trap his delight behind clenched teeth. The man’s mouth was _heaven_ , hot and impossibly tight around him, slick and inviting him deeper still.

 

He managed very little thought after that. Little but the effort to breathe, and blink his eyes to peer blearily through his shadowed helm.

 

Aymeric had the gall to look up at him then, as though he could see more than just the tight line of Estinien’s frown. But then the other man let his eyes fall blissfully closed. He adjusted his grip and took the dragoon deeper, working his hand along the shaft and picking up saliva as he went. Neither was his tongue idle, dancing dizzyingly even as the tight suction of his cheeks urged them both onward. Raw heat was blooming in Estinien’s belly, a furnace fanning slowly into an open, steady flame. But the knight moved only languidly, his lashes fluttering in a slow dance of pleasure, indifferent to the dragoon’s sputtering breath and heavy, aching need.

 

Dimly Estinien recalled that he had thought himself prepared. It was a trick, one he supposed that he’d played upon himself. Aymeric was not merely _skilled_. He was better at playing the whore than women he’d payed good wages for. Nor did the other man seem to perform for his eye. The soft growls that occasionally vibrated through his cock like an electric current, those seemed nearly pleasured, unhurried and unforced. It didn’t even seem as though the man was uncomfortable, even as he eased the thick shaft deeper than he could recall a professional having attempted. He was _relaxed_ , contented, almost meditative in his ease.

 

And then those dark lashes flickered once more, bringing him a fleeting glimpse of elegant, narrowed eyes. A flash of fire in the dim light. Focused on him. Dilated wide and dark, and fully, utterly, _consumed_.

 

Even if he could muster the presence of mind to try, it was pointless to pretend at composure. Not when the blood was thrumming loud and hard in his cock, and his gasping breath would needs a snoring dragon to disguise. Estinien was boiling, trying not to give in too soon, but with naught to do but pull on his bonds and twist his limbs, it was a losing fight. He gave in to pleasure, letting his lips fall open, cool and wet, admitting his own need as though it were a hated weakness. He gasped raggedly, plaintively. And then he heard the other man’s name escape his lips, a whispered prayer. A distant, heady dream, warm and far too soft.

 

Oh, but he should not have. Because then the dream receded, as though to give name to his desire made it slip from his grasp! Aymeric released him abruptly, panting himself and  _ruffled_ , cheeks flushed and eyes veiled in shadow. Too dark, too still. Biting his lip with absent teeth, the picture of fuckability and burning, heretical sin.

 

Just when had Aymeric become so  _beautiful?_ When had his broad shoulders and lithe body become forged into purest art? When had those sharp eyes demanded he give over his entire focus, like the rhythm of his lance against a worthy foe?

 

He was close. He _wanted_. His cock ached in the burning chill, and we whimpered like a beaten dog.

 

“ Shhh,” whispered his knight, crawling towards him and touching soothingly as he went. “You shall have what you desire.” Estinien arched blindly  against the brush of his skin , needy and no longer sure why he would ever have tried to disguise it.

 

Then a memory spurred against the back of the dragoon’s skull, rude and anxious like a kick to a chocobo’s flank. “You win,” he gasped, pained and heart-sore. “You bloody _win_ , you sodden whore’s greedy cunt!”

 

Words ran dry, Aymeric’s lips soothing along the line of his collarbone and murmuring nonsense into his kisses. That and the thighs that trapped his waist were the only contact Estinien had, but he arched into it all the same, needful like a drunkard on his last bottle.

 

“Thank you,” spoke the other man, his tone gentle and contrite. “But that was foregone. Pray be at ease, I will not deny you. I only have a request.”

 

Estinien flinched. A bloody—no, it was useless to rail, just as his effort to pull against his ropes did nothing but stir the blood in his fingers. Aymeric could full well raise the stakes to the roof. Estinien was captive to it, trussed and held by the bloody _balls_. “Name it,” he growled, letting his anger and a sliver of hurt shine clear in his teeth.

 

His friend blinked, a little startled, perhaps, by his tone. Sometime in the dewy openness of his gaze made Estinien bite his own tongue as he waited for the man to speak.

 

He seemed hesitant, perhaps unsure. Though he’d been pleased as punch with a cock in his mouth, his gaze swam nervously away now, fleeing the nearly naked man beneath him. “I really do mean it as a request, yours to refuse without consequence,” he insisted, almost _meekly_. He took a steadying breath breath to look at the blank helm that hovered above Estinien’s malicious sneer. “I was wondering if you would… consent to kiss me,” he finished at last. As an afterthought, he shifted aside, letting his fingers brush softly against the larger man’s straining erection. “I won’t deny you,” he insisted. “I swear it.”

 

The touch was like the dance of lightning on a mage’s staff, making Estinien’s whole being light up with sparks and trembling warmth. He believed that promise, he realized, even as the ache settled back into his shoulders after the brief exhilaration. He believed the offer was as genuine as sunlight in the dawn.

 

He wanted. He wanted that hot mouth upon him again. He wanted to _lose_ himself inside that heat, and leave the consequences ‘til morning.

 

And yet… _Aymeric wanted to kiss him_. The thought knocked his dire intent all askew, made him feel a little dizzy even bound securely to the bed, tucked safe inside his helm.

 

He felt his nod rather than commanding it, a clumsy strain of metal that scratched at his arms unprovoked. He didn’t trust his lips to speak, so it was well that they stayed silent and merely wandered open, soothed by his tongue. It was all his intent could manage just to move his lungs and _breathe_.

 

Aymeric stared after him a moment, eyes uncharacteristically round as though he doubted his sight. Then he was lunging closer, reaching for the helm in a frantic rush. “May I?” he breathed, pausing with his fingers pressed firm against the clasps.

 

Of course he knew how to work the thing. He’d seen the helm removed and refastened enough times. Aymeric was one of the few he felt truly comfortable disarming around, though it was rare enough that he could entirely relax. “Aye,” Estinien croaked. The brevity served to keep his words from leaping into the wild unknown, in pursuit of his pounding heart.

 

If he had thought his knight had touched him with reverence before, it seemed he needed a new word for it. _Wonder_ , perhaps, even _piety_. He seemed almost frightened with his awe, his grasp slipping clumsily as he worked the helm gently free. Estinien could do little to aid him but lift his head and watch, his silence its own brand of comment. There were no more grumbles or complaints caught in the hollow of his throat, beneath his chocobo’s apple. It was just _feeling_ , thick and fearful, unwilling to be named or spoken aloud.

 

Then he was exposed, naked and defenseless. The helm was set gently aside. Estinien held his breath, paralyzed by the unknown as much as by the ropes that held him.

 

Aymeric moved slowly, his eyes darting cautiously over the dragoon’s perilously bare face. It was his hand that made contact first, tracing gently along his jaw with just the rough graze of fingertips. Then long, deft fingers wound themselves into his tangle of hair, drawing it out of its knot, straightening it, distracting his senses with shivers and tingles.

 

Then he was consumed by a kiss, and  _nothing else mattered_ .

 

He had perhaps expected it to be soft. Or wet, or even awkward. Instead it was surprisingly _firm_ , a dry press of lips with the barest movement to give it shape and form. Estinien surrendered the battle before it began, going limp against the other man and gasping to admit him, though no entry had been sought. For a space he simply basked in the wonder of it, the commanding way in which his knight moved against him and caressed his neck and jaw.

 

Eventually it occurred to him to _kiss back_. But his searching tongue only prompted the other man to pull minutely away, his lips curling into a slight smile even as they pushed once more against him.

 

Estinien resisted the urge to bite. It was hardly difficult—once he’d resigned himself to letting the other man take whatever he willed, the kiss became quite pleasant. Naught like any he’d experienced before, though it left him little room to think on the comparison. That was the magic of it. The kiss was still as winter’s glass, the glacial movements pulling him into another time, another pace. Even without the use of his tongue, Aymeric seemed to _savor_ him, his appreciation evident even without his searching fingers and soft sounds of contentment.

 

When at last their tongues met—hesitantly, sweetly—Estinien could not think to contain the feeling. His choked-off breath spilled over into something else entirely, washing him in a warm bath of murky desire. Distantly he understood that the keening sound echoing beneath his sternum belonged to him. He lacked even the sense to feel ashamed of it, too busy reveling in the taste of the other man as he pressed back, so cautiously, in answer.

 

He had learnt his lesson, or perhaps his body had learnt it for him. He did not push forward blindly, though he felt no less urgency. For his patience he was rewarded with a long, slow descent into sin, a long exchange of warm breath and hot tongues, an education in softness and still mediation. It was perhaps not unlike learning a new dance. As though such a thing were worth the patience and the time, as though the steps and rhythm were their own reward, when shared with the right partner. Estinien’s ardor was not cooled by it, though it was tempered somehow, simmering slowly beneath his skin and fed by a low trickle of lust. Rather, it blossomed slowly, transformed and enriched by the gradual slide of lips and tongues, soft nibbles and deep delves, each only just more daring than the last.

 

It had never occurred to Estinien that a simple kiss could bring such pleasure. It had only ever been a means to an end, for him. A way to open the door to a woman’s body, and warm her to his aims. He had never done more than demonstrate his base desire, to suggest with his tongue what he offered with his cock. A pale token, compared to this.

 

He had perhaps misunderstood the art. But then, he had never kissed _Aymeric_.

 

A sudden spark of anger ignited amidst the flame of passion, and this time Estinien _did_ bite, if only a firm snap of teeth against the other man’s lip. It was enough to convey his irritation, pushing Aymeric away to blink at him in sore confusion. Not anger, though it were perhaps warranted. But alarm and caution.

 

It took hardly any effort to ignore the way his knight gazed at him. Lips flushed and panting, eyes chased wide to _wonder_.

 

The dragoon focused his anger instead, a weapon with a familiar heft. Unfamiliar was his own voice, low and rough, sounding as startled to finally speak as Aymeric was to listen. “You could have just kissed me, you worm-eaten sack of chocobo filth. You didn’t have to bloody—bloody--”

 

A soft press against his lips kept him from the shame of admitting his transgressions aloud, even as his cheeks filled with the burn of it. It was only the pad of Aymeric’s thumb, rough and salty, but tender as the look writ on the other man’s brows. “Perhaps,” the knight said, a sheepish smile perching itself upon his lips, downy and hesitant. “But even had it been suggested, would you have found it proof enough? Would you have thought yourself convinced by a mere kiss?”

 

Estinien blinked, the statement incongruous against his own anger like rolanberry ice on a flank of venison hot off the fire. It took a moment to melt into his own apprehension, cooling his ire as it spread. No. No, he would not have _imagined_ it, or anything near the like. He would have rejected the notion out of hand, if offered, and it had not begun to cross his own mind.

 

Aymeric let his grin grow more predatory and sure, leaning closer, letting his fingers roam once more in the tangle of platinum hair that rebelled against the pillow. “The conclusion was foregone,” he murmured close against the dragoon’s lips, but cautious of his teeth. “Ask yourself, perchance, if a year’s revelry was really all that hung in the bargain here. Ask yourself why you agreed, even knowing the true terms.”

 

Estinien could not do as he was bade—he couldn’t hear his own thoughts over the din of his beating heart. It became imperative to act instead, closing the scant gap between them to assert a kiss of his own against that insufferable smirk. Aymeric let him have his sway, this time, opening his mouth and falling on his elbows to lean bodily against him. It was gratifying enough that the dragoon could leave aside his rage entirely, grounded by the contact, cooled by the heat of the other man’s skin and the wet quench of his welcoming mouth.

 

Oh, but he was so _hard_. How had he forgotten? He _needed_ , and the hungry searching of his tongue was no longer enough to keep his cock at bay. With searing skin against his chest and soft hair brushing his cheek, he was all too aware of the chill of empty air where he should have felt _Aymeric_.

 

Though he supposed he could little complain, when it was he himself who monopolized the other man’s tongue.

 

Perhaps something in his movements communicated his need. Perhaps it was the rough grunt he gave when Aymeric drew away, evading once more the searching of needy lips. But his words were welcome, once Estinien’s haze cleared enough to properly sort them true.

 

“Is it my mouth you want?” whispered his knight, a faint blush highlighting his regal face. “Or something… more?”

 

Estinien’s body answered first, speaking out with a guttural moan. He felt more animal than man, pressed against his knight’s broad chest. There was surely an answer, somewhere, if he could only find his words, but Aymeric only fluttered soft kisses over the corners of his lips. Mere glancing blows before he leaned away to sit upright once more, perched astride the dragoon’s taut stomach and too far from his raging need.

 

With the cool air against his skin came a gust of reason, nearly as unwelcome. He wanted more, yes—but more of _what?_ “You’re a fool if you think you can use me like some _woman_ ,” he spat, shock coloring his cheeks as much as desire. Somewhere along the way he forgot to insult the other man’s mother, or perhaps his cat. The whole thought process was obscured by his clear view of the knight’s defined stomach, and oh, the straining of his _trousers_.

 

“Of course not,” replied Aymeric, blinking hazily, not seeming to mind in the least whither Estinien’s eyes had wandered. “I’ve counted you a friend well long enough to know better than to assume. Rather… I was offering.”

 

Oh.

 

… No, he still wasn’t able to wrap his mind around the offer, even as it sat heavily in the still air between them. Not even when Aymeric shifted and bit his lip uncertainly, as though reconsidering. “We needn’t…” he started, working his jaw and seeming to grasp after his words before they could escape. “We could continue as we were…”

 

Something connected in Estinien’s mind, like the satisfying give of dragon flesh beneath a well-timed blow. He attempted to croak out a reply but choked on his own breath, and resorted to nodding his assent, vigorously, lest the motion be missed. His head felt light, almost buoyant without his helm. As though he could float away like an Ixali war balloon, and _needed_ Aymeric’s weight to keep him tethered to the ground.

 

A tension in his arms informed him that he was safely moored still, much as he wanted, just now, to reach out and touch the man astride him.

 

Rather than widening with surprise, Aymeric’s long eyes narrowed, his dark lashes drooping low to behold the dragoon’s approval with sharp interest. “Truly,” he whispered, his lips parted, swollen and red from use but _ridiculously lovely_.

 

Estinien only growled, a deliberate rattling of his ribs, long and low. It was supposed to be irritation, but somewhere along the way it became an expression of his lust. It trailed off against the drumbeat of his own heart, and ended in a quiet gasp for air once he’d emptied his lungs to the last.

 

There was little use in concealing anything, at this point. What his erection hadn’t given away, his transparent expression surely must have. Or the way his arms strained minutely against his ropes, pulling as much for the sensation of resistance as for the desire to be loosed. The dragoon had, piece by piece, given over every defense and liberty.

 

Given to Aymeric. Willingly.


End file.
